How Many Hairs Did I Have?

 How many hairs did I used to have? I don't know. I just know I had more than I have now!

Yesterday I started to brush my hair like usual, and then I looked at my brush. It was full of hair!

This morning was even worse. Whole wads of hair were coming out by the time I passed the brush through my hair three times. 

Yesterday I was very brave. 

I was not going to cry. No. I went out to the kitchen and started making my guys' lunches and breakfast. Since I'd been able to rise much earlier than usual, I even had time to make extra special omelets! Hair or no hair, I was not going to waste time crying.

That was yesterday. I'm still not wasting time crying, but I did feel pretty heart-sick when I saw how much hair was wisping from my hair brush every couple times I passed the brush through.

"What is it going to be like tomorrow?" I asked myself.  

The oncologist had told me that most people lose their hair somewhere between day 14 and 17 after having their first chemo. The wig lady told me it's usually not until after the second chemo that people's hair is gone. I secretly hoped that with the silica-rich supplement I'm taking (food grade diatomaceious earth I've taken frequently which has helped my hair grow thicker and several inches longer) perhaps I would go longer before losing my hair. This was not to be. Yesterday was Day 12 after chemo, and today is Day 13, and it isn't even Day 14 yet. 

When I thought about having my devotions and reading the Bible, I wondered if there would be anything in the Bible that would remotely relate to losing one's hair because of chemo. 

The first verse that came to my mind was, "But the very hairs of your head are all numbered." I thought that was in Matthew, and sure enough, after checking my huge Strongs Concordance that my mother gave me as a high school graduation gift about 40 years ago, I found the verse in Matthew 10:30. It is also in Luke 12:7. 

Not everything in one gospel is also in another gospel, but this is one verse that is in two gospels--word for word (at least in the NKJV). It must have made quite an impression on more than one person following Jesus' ministry. 

This statement was made in Matthew in the context of Jesus sending the twelve out to minister--not to the Gentiles or Samaritans at that point, but to "the lost sheep of the house of Israel." To their fellow Jews, including religious and non-religious people.  Jesus was reminding the disciples not to be afraid of anything, not even death, because God valued them and was going to take care of them.

In Luke, the statement was made in the context of the Pharisees assailing Jesus, and Jesus turning to His disciples to warn them about the Pharisees. He was telling the disciples to beware of religious people who cover up their sins and end up with the biggest and baddest sin of all--hypocrisy. Jesus was telling the disciples to not fear religious or cultish people who would accuse them, arrest them, interrogate them, beat them, and sometimes even kill them--for His name's sake and for following their Messiah.

It was in those contexts that Jesus reminds His disciples how much value they are to God by saying, "Even the very hairs of your head are all numbered."

It seems to me that this statement was all about God valuing us so much that He is going to protect us all the time--not necessarily from trials but through trials.

He thinks about us.

He cares about us and the smallest details of our lives (including our hair and our feelings of losing value when we lose a part of our body and appearance that makes us who we are).

He wants us not to be afraid, but rather to use every opportunity to confess and share Jesus Christ and the gospel that will lead men to repentance and faith in Christ.

So even when all my hair has fallen out, and I am completely bald and trying to find a comfortable hat that will remotely match (or contrast with) whatever outfit I am wearing on a given day, I ought to still try to find a way as often as possible to speak a word for my Lord and to confess my faith in Christ--at home, at the cancer center, in the hospital or clinic, everywhere I go.

He counts the hairs that will go into the wastebasket shortly (unless I find some creative way to save or use them), He sees the sparrow when it falls, and He cares about the silent gulps of a wife and mother staring at herself in the mirror while her up-do keeps falling down.  Even the hairs of our heads are all numbered--much less all the times we must face insults, accusations, and persecutions for the sake of Christ and righteousness and simply the truth.  

And we are not to be afraid, but to remember that even if we are so devalued as to be killed like a common sparrow, we must always remember that in God's sight, we are of great value, to the extent that every hair on our head (or falling off of it) is numbered.And God has His limits on what man or devil or the curse can do unto us.

This far and no further.

This many and no more.

This long, and no longer.

God has numbered our hairs, our days, and our trials. Some day the curse will be done, our battle will be over, and instead of a hat perching lightly on a poor bald head, God will set a crown on a new and healthy head (that will surely have gorgeous hair all over it) and will be showing us through His heavenly kingdom that He has prepared for those Who love Him--even through cancer with all its trials.

Sunday's Joys--Fetching, Feasting, Following

 Yesterday was a wonderful Sunday. Hannah thought we should check at the nursing home again, as we have for the last few Sundays, to see if the temporary Covid lock-down is over yet and if "Beaver" (her nickname) could come to church. Beaver had covid herself, the nurses said, about three weeks ago. I thought it would be too cold to push Beaver down the street, but we went to the nursing home, whose entry sidewalk was gloriously decorated along both sides for Halloween with naked skeletons boasting long, black wisps of tulle. Jonathan and Hannah went inside, Jonathan coming back out to hold the door for a nurse who was bringing three residents out to get their smokes for the morning. Each of the residents had his own plastic bag of fire-proof apron which the nurse helped them put on. Then the nurse was pulling cigarettes out of his pocket and helping them with lighting and getting started on their morning smokes with the sunshine and skeletons!

Before I knew it, the door opened again, and here came Jonathan and Hannah with no less than our friend, Beaver!  She had a coat on, and while Jonathan drove me back to church, Danny and Hannah pushed her the five blocks to church. In the above picture, there they go up the ramp, all because Hannah was thoughtful and persistent when her mom thought there was probably no use! 

It's true, that before service was over, Beaver was starting to push herself to the back, saying that she needed to go now, so we had to get her out the back door and on her way with Danny pushing the wheelchair and Hannah driving the car to bring Danny back! But still, she got to come to church, be with friends, enjoy a hot cup of coffee (a special privilege reserved only for Beaver!), and hear God's Word and some good music.

I think music is one of God's ways to attract people to Himself and to church. A few Sundays ago, a grandma who had just lost her Christian husband, "Chuck," who used to attend our church, came to church with Chuck's old guitar.

She wanted to give it to Hannah, since she understood that Hannah plays guitar. 

Hannah took Chuck's guitar home, sat down, tuned it up, and promptly sang a song with it--"God is good all the time." She did such a good job, that we encouraged her to sing the song in church next Sunday, hoping very much Chuck's wife would be there. 

We wanted Chuck's wife to know that the guitar was being used already.

Hannah did sing, Chuck's wife was there, and she beamed!

How she loved seeing her husband's guitar being played!

And she kept coming to church each Sunday! 

Yesterday she brought two huge packages of fried chicken to heat in the oven, as well as a huge carton of her own homemade potato salad. I ate three pieces of fried chicken--one of the few foods I have enjoyed and felt good eating since having chemo. 

At first, this grandmother, who had almost never attended church before her husband died, showed up with her two granddaughters whom her husband used to bring to church, and appeared uncertain and bashful. 

Now she sits and beams--and is beginning to contribute.

She is feeling a part.

 

Nothing could make us happier, and we are grateful for Hannah's willingness to be used of God to reach people in small but practical ways. She came home last night after evening service, where Jonathan had been asked to fill in for Keith Lavery who is away, telling me that one of the native men off the street had made a positive comment to Jonathan about his message.

The theme had been "Lessons from a Garden."

Jonathan had sat down at the meal afterward with four native men, and then when Jonathan was getting up to leave, one of the men said about the message, "I was following you."

It was a very simple comment, but it meant a lot to us. The man had been able to follow simple stories, illustrations, Bible verses, and truths from God's Word based on growing a garden and harvesting its fruits.

I can hardly imagine a better compliment to a speaker than that a hearer was able to "follow."

The hearer was not feeling driven. 

He was not being put down.  

He was not getting lost in the brush.

He was able to follow the message--truth that could help him in his life. 

What a wonderful Sunday joy with which to finish the day!

"Your dad's cool."

Last week Danny was taking extra lunch along to share with one of the guys who has been working for Jonathan this week. 

Together with other native men, Danny and this man were finishing painting trim and siding on the mission building.

Here's what the building looked like two or three weeks ago, with old siding pulled off.

 New siding on but not painted and trimmed completely yet.

Anyway, as Hannah and I were getting supper on, Danny told us about the homeless young native man that the mission has been giving some work to the last three days. I asked if the man liked the sandwich Danny took for him.

That day it was burger sandwiches made with extra burgers Jonathan had grilled the night before. (I don't particularly care for cold burgers, but if you put enough ketchup and mustard and relish on them, they're okay, and you know the meat is homegrown versus cheap sandwich meat from the store.) We didn't know if the worker would enjoy a cold burger like my men do or not.

"He said, 'Tasty burger!'" Danny told us. "We paid this guy $30 last night so he could buy something to eat, and he came to work this morning with donuts and Red Bull."

That's what he was expecting to live on and work on.

So Danny gave him a meat sandwich and also shared his big piece of apple pie.  

Danny added, "He told me 'Your dad's cool.' And when I was like, "Yeah," he said, "He really loves you." 

"Later he asked if I had a mom," Danny remembered. We wonder what his home life was like. Did he even know who his mom was?

 

Did he have one who may have mixed up oatmeal apple waffles for breakfast one time in his far distant past like Danny's mom did Saturday?

Might she have made French toast? Ever?

Did he have a dad? 

"I wonder what it was that made him realize how much your dad loves you," I pondered.
On the work site, I was sure there were no hugs, kisses, "I love yous" or pats on the back!

 But we thought how Jonathan always talks man-to-man to Danny and gives him instructions in a clear and kind voice, and that's probably what the young man noticed--a dad taking time with his son and treating him kindly. Jonathan always lets Danny know when he's going somewhere else and perhaps the man noticed thoughtful interaction, perhaps a simple "See you later, Danny," as Jonathan headed off to another place or inside to do paperwork. 

Such simple interactions mean so much to someone who is "out on their luck,"

 someone who's sleeping nights in a messy car, not sure where the next meal is coming from--

only to have a young man share a homemade lunch with him, put together by a mom who is there for her son nearly every morning before he heads off to work with his dad--a dad who loves his son so much that it shows everywhere they go,

a dad that's pretty "cool."

October Gold--and Rich in Hope!

"In the face of uncertainty, there is nothing wrong with hope." 

This is a quote I found in an old photo I had taken of a page of a book written by a doctor who learned to always give his patients hope. 

This is what my oncologist did for me in Rapid City this week.

Different than the oncologist in Colorado who assumed the worst and was only going to treat me with maintenance doses, this oncologist has a whole different attitude.

"I brought your case to my whole team," she said. "And since we do not have proof that the cancer is metastatic at this point, we are treating it as a locally advanced cancer. 

The treatment is harsh," she admitted. But it is for a purpose, and prescribed with hope.

Basically all the side effects I told her I was experiencing were to be expected. 

When she asked how I was, I did not tell her fine. 

I told her I was feeling awful. 

Because I figured I should be honest rather than polite when it comes to this cancer. 

The night before, Jonathan and I had taken an autumn drive toward Spearfish before staying overnight at friends. The aspen in a few places were as golden as they are in Colorado!

It was a gorgeous evening!

I just felt anything but gorgeous. I was in too much pain and feeling too weak and yucky to do much walking, but at least we could drive and get out a couple places for pictures. 

Someday maybe we can do the hike that goes down below these Spearfish Falls. At least we got to see it from the top.

The next morning before the doctor visit,  I went for my blood labs, which she said all looked great--even if I felt simply awful.

Secretly I wished something would have been wacko with my blood labs so I wouldn't have to have more chemo.

Instead, those particular blood tests are saying I'm fine.     

I decided I should be thankful.  

So I was.  

But it didn't help me feel better. I was having a lot of kidney pain. The doctor said it was actually probably musculo-skeletal pain from the drug I was injected with that stimulates white blood cells, but I decided to disagree. Just later. To myself.

Stabbing waves of pain across both kidneys I can't imagine is musculo-skeletal.

But who is to say?

Oncologists know things I don't.

Drugs do weird things.

After the doctor visit, Jonathan decided before driving home to take me first to see more autumn beauty at Sheridan Lake, about half an hour from Rapid City. As we started up the very long, steep climb out of Rapid City toward Keystone and Custer, I started remembering the identical climb fifty years ago.

Exactly 50 years ago to the month, my original Morley family was moving out here to South Dakota so we could home school. All nine of us (Joella and Kezia had not been born yet) were squeezed inside a station wagon pulling a heavy little U-Haul trailer with our only belongings in it. My dad didn't think we were going to make it up the hill out of Rapid City toward Custer but somehow we made it. 

We lived in Keystone one year and in Custer three years before moving on to Florida and then Pennsylvania again where it was finally legal to home school. 

Fifty years later, I am a missionary wife fighting chemo side effects, zooming easily along in our little Honda SUV.

Feeling a little nauseated (like morning sickness! :) and realizing I needed something to eat, we pulled over at the side of the road so I could pull something out of the cooler. The road where we pulled off happened to be named Busted Five Road. My dad had set up a business right there about 46 years ago, our last summer living in Custer, SD. We took old fashioned photos of people and Dad carved redwood name signs. That was a very busy but challenging and happy summer.

It was the summer I gave my heart to Jesus.

 I have mostly happy memories of living in South Dakota as a child, especially of exploring back behind our little house in the rocky hills and pines and aspen. We never had much money to our name, but we never went hungry. 

And now 50 years later, God is still faithful.

The day before I went to the doctor I had gone to a lymphatic therapist for a treatment to drain my struggling lymphs. 

My skin was tight and swollen and leathery and angry red. 

It seemed that the chemo had kicked cancer pain back only for a night, and then the pain and everything just had come back. The next few days I wondered if I had any hope at all except for worsening pain until I died. 

But then there was the lymph treatment.

In a matter of an hour, lymph had loosened from being stuck to my rib cage. 

By the next morning, the angry red color was lightening, and the pain was less. The improvement was palpable and visible both. 

And that treatment only cost us $85 versus the $30,000 bill estimate we were sent a couple weeks ago for a single day of chemos.

God had provided a little clinic with a doctor who knows something about helping women with breast cancer and helping them with lymph drainage so they can heal. 

After the doctor visit, despite the weakness and pain, I stood looking at the aspen leaves glowing with millions of golden coins and knew that with God in our lives, we are rich.

We have  hope.

"In the face of uncertainty, there is nothing wrong with hope." 

Roll Call for Our Veteran Friend

This morning before Jonathan left for work I asked him about our friend Faye's funeral which he and our pastor attended last night in Wanblee. While we've attended two Christian native funerals recently, this one was different in that our friend was a veteran. Right about now, she is being laid to rest in the Black Hills National Cemetery in Sturgis. 

Last night, an Episcopal "mother" officiated the service, complete with communion served including wine from a common cup! 

"None of us missionaries went up for it," Jonathan said. 

But it was interesting to him to observe typical native funeral customs (including one season of drums and wailing, Jonathan said, since relatives were not Christians). What was most special was that Faye received special honor as a veteran.

"There was a point in the funeral," Jonathan told me, "when all the veterans were asked to go to the back and sign their names in a roll book. Then they came back up front and lined up.

And then there was a roll call. 

The leader would call a name, and that veteran would salute and answer, "Here, Sir!"

The next one the same. 

At the end, Faye's name was called. "Jewel Faye Lemay."

No answer.

"Jewel Faye Lemay."

No answer.

For a third time, "Jewel Faye Lemay."

This time, Jonathan said, "someone in the back called out, 'She's been called Home."

As he told me this, Jonathan was tearing up. 

"All the veterans then went up and filed by Faye's casket, saluting her," he said.

And for a moment in our South Dakota kitchen, all I could think about was the song "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder, I'll Be There." 

Faye was no longer answering the roll down here on earth. She had been called Home, and now she is answering to a heavenly Roll Call.

Sweet Faye, precious Jewel, my friend to whom I sang and quoted Scripture and tried to reassure her at the end that her sins were forgiven,

by God's grace I will meet you up Yonder.

"When the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there!"

She Heard Him Singing "When They Ring The Golden Bells for You and Me"

Yesterday I called my daughter Crystal while she was driving home from attending the funeral of our friend and former pastor, Dennis Goodwin. I figured while she was traveling she could fill me in on the happenings at a funeral that Jonathan and I and others in our family would have loved to attend had circumstances been different. Since we were stuck here in South Dakota with my first chemo treatments, I was happy that Crystal decided to go. While Crystal was teaching in Missouri, she had sometimes taken a dish of food or gone to help Mrs. Goodwin with cleaning or care for her husband, and she really wanted to attend the funeral and represent our family.

Pastor Goodwin had filled in at our church in Colorado for about a year and a half, and how our family came to love the Goodwins!  Linda Lee Goodwin taught the youth class and became close to our girls, remaining in touch with them by email and phone for years later.

Two things stood out to us about Bro. Goodwin--his delightful sense of humor and his rich bass voice. We never did get tired of hearing him sing.

So while I was going through about 6 hours of chemo infusions Thursday, Crystal was traveling, and my niece Susanna at the florist shop where she works was arranging a beautiful bouquet to be from our family in memory of Bro. Goodwin.  

And then yesterday Crystal filled me in on everything she could remember from the funeral, including how the two sons led the service with laughter and tears, having seemed to have inherited the same gift of humor that their dad had. 

But one special thing really stood out. At the very end of the service, a lady named Christy got up who had been a friend of the Goodwins for a long time. (She had actually been a classmate of my sister Joella and her husband Craig at Penn View Bible Institute.) She used to play the piano at the camp meeting where Bro. Goodwin used to be president, and she said how she and he shared the same birthday. On their birthdays, one or the other would call each other and say, "Happy birthday, birthday twin!"

Well, on the day Brother Goodwin died, Christy had no idea about it, and was going about her work in her kitchen when all of a sudden, she said she heard Bro. Goodwin's voice singing "Precious Lord, Take My Hand."

Startled, Christy thought, "I wonder what is up." So she texted Sis. Goodwin, to find out that Bro. Goodwin was worse than he had been in his battle with pneumonia. 

Christy went on with her day, but later in the evening, she suddenly heard Bro. Goodwin's voice again. 

This time he was singing, "When They Ring The Golden Bells for You and Me."

Only minutes later, Christy received the news that Bro. Goodwin had entered the gates of heaven--where surely the bells were ringing for the one who, through so  many years of suffering after his stroke, had faithfully trusted His Savior.

I was getting goosebumps as I listened.

While those close to Bro. Goodwin's bedside that evening were only observing unresponsiveness and the last breath of life, someone a distance away heard his voice singing.

As Christy told what God had allowed her to hear, Crystal said she didn't think there was a dry eye in the room!

Sometimes a person has to step back to hear what is really happening--the beautiful singing, the bells ringing, the joy, the triumph, the glory!  

We sometimes only hear the silences, the minor chords, the cacophony of suffering, trials, and death. 

But if we could just hear the beautiful music that God has prepared for those who love Him,

and in which each one can participate!

If we could only hear those golden bells ringing for you and me!

The Wig Lady--When You Can Have What You Want

The day after chemo, ready or not, I had three early appointments--a CT scan, an injection of something that is supposed to stimulate my bone marrow to produce white blood cells fast (since the chemo killed all of the WBC) and an appointment at the wig salon! Imagine Anna Lucas at the wig salon. I decided since a wig was offered free, I would accept the offer, even if I never wore the wig. You just never know. Maybe I will someday--if my bald scalp is not too uncomfortable. 

 

So here I was at the wig salon with a dear lady who did not mind me putting her name in my phone as the "Wig Lady." She is a volunteer at this cancer center, helping cancer patients find a wig that they like, choose free hats or scarves, and giving them tips on where to get eyebrow stencils (since eyebrows disappear, too, along with hair). How exciting to think about!

Just last week, when I washed my hair, I noticed how thick and lush it was, a result of all the supplements I've been downing for my cancer, including diatomaceous earth that is mostly silica. My hair is thicker and longer than it has been probably since I was young.

Just in time to go bye-bye. 

If that isn't a bummer.

My kind nurse at the hospital the day before had accepted without batting an eye my bringing my own ice cap and ice mitts in to keep my fingers and scalp cold, to try to help keep neuropathy from setting in. I'd heard an ice cap might help with hair loss, but I am not banking on that. The main thing was that I didn't want neuropathy. 

How glorious I looked sitting there in the wig salon with this tight cap on that I had to put on before testing any wigs!  

Any wig would look better than that. 

That must be why they have you put that on first! :) :)

Anyway, there I was trying on wigs. This one looked pretty close to my own hair, so this was Jonathan's and my first choice. 

I wanted to see what I would look like with this wig.

And this one was a little foolish of me.

(And I'm missing my glasses because I had to take my glasses off when she put the wig on, and this time I forgot to put them back on.)

It looked a little like the hairstyle my mom had when she was young. It was tempting to want to look young and carefree and curly and cute--something I am not!

Plus, as one son exclaimed, it was too short!

Guidelines in God's Word are that a woman's long hair is her glory, and that she ought not to cut her hair, I reminded myself.

In my flesh, this is the hair style I thought I looked the best in because of my thin face. I looked happy and carefree--and that is what I wanted.

But my flesh must constantly be in subordination to God's Word--even when it comes to wigs. 

His principles are more important than my fondest wishes--even the wish to look young and have pretty curls.

 

Then there was this one.  Too blond. Unlike me. 

Though who says you have to be you when it comes to wigs? You can choose whatever look you want.

For once in your life, you can choose what you want instead of what you have!

 Is that wrong?
I thought about that. I have never been really happy with my hair. Over and over I've had to learn to accept that I have what someone once called "dirty dishwater brown hair."

Not a pretty sound. 

Not a pretty brown. 

Just brown. 

Like dirty dishwater. 

And now it's gray like concrete clean-up water.  

But was I content with what God gave me? Now it's being taken away and I am looking at this in a different light.

Actually, I didn't want a wig with hair as long as mine right now. How could I make the wig hair like my own? I didn't want a wig in my way.

Plus there is a special problem with wigs, Mrs. Wig Lady told me. The hair is all synthetic (imported from China, she added for some reason) and it can catch fire very quickly.

 So be careful, she said, near your oven and if you're standing over a grill! The hair might melt, or you might catch on fire! 

Mrs. Wig Lady also had cupboards and racks full of hats that cancer survivors who know how to knit have knitted or crocheted for people like me.  She let me choose more than one. The cupboards seemed just as full as ever after I chose mine.

I'll probably just go with a hat. 

Because a wig can make you look however you want to look--no matter what other people think. 

And that's okay.

But it isn't real.

It isn't really me. 

And it might catch on fire. 

There are many things in life we may think we want.

Fantasies, dreams, desires, wigs, belongings, stuff--anything but what we have

and that God has given to us. 

And if we only knew it, how quickly they will go up in smoke, either now or in the hereafter. 

May I choose contentment with who God made me to be, 

dishwater-brown-hair-turned-gray and all,

rather than fantasizing about something different. 

So I think I'll go visit the Hat Lady!